


The White Lady of Ithilien

by JosefAik



Category: The Lord of the Rings (Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: F/M, Post-Lord of the Rings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:21:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28326015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JosefAik/pseuds/JosefAik
Summary: The Fourth Age was an age of men. Aragorn Elessar sits the throne of Gondor, whilst Rohan is united once more. The lady Eowyn took to husband Faramir, the son of Denethor, and the Prince of Ithilien. Their time together was long, but the aftermath may seem longer.
Relationships: Eowyn & Elboron, Éowyn/Faramir, Éowyn/Faramir (Son of Denethor II)
Kudos: 13





	The White Lady of Ithilien

The woods of Ithilien shone with a near ethereal beauty that morning, Eowyn thought. The blades of sun that penetrated through the thick, verdant canopy dappled the ground in gentle rays of light, whilst the spring breeze chased green leaves from the ground, and danced across the fast-flowing waters of gently babbling brooks and streams. They ran across Ithilien as a patchwork, and the sound of running water was rarely far from one’s ear. She had grown to love the music of it, even if this place was so very unlike the plains of Rohan. Here, the sun fell in orange and yellow, against the greens and browns of the trees. The music of the forest was in the run of the water, the chirp of the birds, calling to one another in their forgotten tongue, and the creak of the trees, some venerable and ancient, others saplings not long planted. 

There were days gone by where she would dance to these sounds, where she would lose her clothes and swim in the streams and pools, slipping into the water without a ripple, and he would follow. Today, she wore white. It covered her completely, a gown of purity and peace. Around her neck she wore a pendant, the leaf of Lorien, which had been a gift to her husband from one long lost. It hung just above her breasts, less pert than in her youth, but then so was all of her. It had been a long life; a good life. 

How many years had it been since the chaos on the fields of Pelennor? Since she had buried her uncle at Edoras, alongside her cousin? Since she had done the same for her own brother, Eomer? It must have been nigh on four score, eighty, since the first, and a matter of ten since the last. Her hands went to the circlet she wore upon her brow, delicate and cold, steel, crafted for the occasion. Her feet were bare, exposed to the breeze, and the cold stone. Emyn Arnen, the home of the House of Hurin, and the seat of the stewards of Gondor, was rarely a cold place. 

It was built into one of Ithlien’s many sweeping hills, the stone jutting out from the soil. A single tower rose above the canopy, but the rest lay low, close to the ground, and hidden by the gorge that rose either side of its walls. It was a safe place, secreted away from potential enemies, though few of those existed nowadays. “Mother.” the voice cut through her ponderous stupour, and she turned to find the source. 

Elboron was ever the image of his father, with raven hair worn long, falling in gentle curls, and grey eyes, somehow both stern and soft. His jawline swept strong, forming into a gently pointed chin, and his nose was austere, but did not mar the fairness of his face. He wore no beard, nor any facial hair, and his cheekbones were high and sharp. He stood taller than she, over six foot, and wore the green and browns that his father favoured, a cloak of hazelnut worn over his back, clasped by a silver brooch, shaped into the bow of Ithilien. He had grown much since the day she had born him from her womb, and was a man grown now, with wife of his own, and a child in her belly. 

“It is time, mother. Are you ready?” 

Would she ever be ready for this, the most bitter of days? Could any woman be? She heard his words echo to her on the breeze, a last lament, a dying promise, fated words she would never unhear, for fear of forgetting his gentle tones. 

“Do not lose what love lies in your heart, and do not scorn the pity that may come. You are the White Lady of Ithilien, she who slayed the Witch-King of Angmar, foulest of Sauron’s lieutenants. No man ought pity you, for you are greatest amongst both men and women.” 

He was not here to speak such words, such reassurances, when she needed them most. What cruel twist of fate was such a thing? When she needed his tongue, so glib and so wise as it was, it was silent and cold. When she needed his hand in hers, it was limp and gone. When she needed his eyes to light her way and guide her path... 

“Father awaits us, mother. We must walk to him, one last time.” 

No tears did Eowyn bear as she followed her child through the woods, her feet bare to the cold ground, her fingers reaching out for what little support she could find, running against the rough bark of the trees, which seemed to weep for the man they had lost. Age had taken much from her, but her beauty still lived, though it was not as that of a shieldmaiden, but of a woman, now. Her day would come soon enough, she thought, but she had been given life beyond that of her love. Lines creased her face now, of laughter and smiles long done, and the lustre of gold had left her flaxen hair. 

Still, she walked to him, and it seemed the forest walked with her, an unspent breath drawn in, from trees and streams, rabbits and squirrels. Each of them watched the procession, wife and son, to the place where he, the Prince of Ithlien, rested. 

Henneth Annun stood silent amidst the sombre woodlands. The waters ran for him, falling into the pool below. Here, the trees did not move in the breeze, the rabbits and squirrels did not tread, not today, for today was a day of men. 

The pool lay undisturbed, a mirror of the canopy above them. She strayed for a moment, to gaze upon herself in the waters. She looked older, she thought, than she had the day before. There was less laughter and joy to the lines of her face, and more age. She did not fear that, as some did. What was death but a way for her to see those that she had loved come again? Her uncle and her brother, Beregond the Brave, Merry and Pippin, the little Hobbits, and her Faramir, who she mourned so now. 

She felt warmth in her hand, and she hoped it was him, come again, to reassure her one last time. Instead, it was her son, who bore his likeness so strongly. That brought her to near weeping, but she would not succumb. She would be strong today, for she needed to be, both for him and for herself. 

“I do miss him, mother. He begged for me not to, for me to remember the life he lived, and the lives he saved, and to know that was enough, but I cannot help such feelings. I had wanted him to see his grandchild born, to know what such a thing felt like. To see that pride in his eyes one last time, at least.” 

She embraced her boy then, as she had when he was little and had scraped his knee on a loose root, or fallen from a parapet to the woodland below. He was taller than she now, and took her embrace in turn. 

“Know strength, Elboron. Pride is not the word for what your father felt for you. Be strong for your wife, and for your people. Know not the evils of ambition, raise your son as we have raised you, and care for your wife as your father cared for me. Do this, and I know he would have been proud of you, as I shall be proud of you, for the man you have become.” 

She did not long to leave that spot, but leave she must. He called for her, and so she climbed, Elboron by her side. No darkness strayed here. There would be no black gowns of grief, for Faramir had not wanted that. As in life, he had wanted light on this day. The day that he would make his final journey. He would visit the Halls of Mandos, and be judged. The best of men. 

The great and the good from across Gondor, and the lands beyond had gathered for him. She would speak to each of them, in turn, as his wife and widow. First, was the young Prince of Dol Amroth, who Faramir had much loved. He had served here, for a time, as page and squire, and he had grown taller since. Still, she recognised the boy who had so loved playing with her own son amidst the trees. 

“The realm weeps for your husband, my lady. Whatever Dol Amroth can do-” 

She placed her hand on his cheek, to silence him, and to offer him warmth from the cold, as she had done when he had been small. 

“Weep not for him, Alphros, for he would not wish your tears. Celebrate him, and what he lived for. Do your duty to your king. Raise not your sword in anger or ambition. Fight to protect, if you have to, but do not lust for honour.” 

Next her nephew, the King of Rohan. He bore the golden locks of their people. He was tall and lean, with the same sharpness as Eomer, the same flashing eyes, but the ears of their uncle, and the jawline of Imrahil, the old Prince of Dol Amroth. 

“I rode from the Riddemark as soon as I heard, o aunt Eowyn. He was family, in the end. Know that Edoras will always be a home to you, and should you return, the Golden Hall shall ring with songs of you, and him, and of father, too.” 

She did not coo with him, who was an adult and a king, and instead just met his gaze as an equal. Few men living had faced perils worse than her own, so why should her teats make her submit to such. She loved her nephew, but she would never be second to him. 

“Your invitation is welcome, nephew, but Ithilien is my home. Perhaps one day I shall set foot in the Golden Hall once more, but for now I have things that must be done here.” 

Legolas, the elf of Mirkwood, and Gimli, son of Gloin, an old dwarf now, grey of hair and tired of eye, each offered their own condolences. These were members of the Fellowship, who had journeyed so far to bring safety to the realm. She had seen them first in Edoras, when they had walked with Gandalf the White, but he was long gone from these shores. They were here now, at least. Faramir deserved that. He had held Gondor against the forces of darkness. He had repelled Sauron, kept him at bay for long enough. He had been a hero, the Steward of Gondor. 

“I must thank you for your presence, my friends. Faramir earned such, but few are the men who are honoured how they deserve to be.” 

She made her last few steps to the dais where he lay. He was handsome in death, she thought, as he had been in life. His raven hair had gone to grey some years before, and his eyes glittered no longer, closed to the world instead. A smile played on his cold lips, perhaps joy from the way his life had been celebrated. He had never been celebrated such in his lifetimes, always stuck in the shadows of other men. He had never deserved that. 

“He has some peace, at least.” 

His words cut through the silence, and she turned. Aragorn the Evenstar, King of Gondor, was older than he had been, but he still stood tall, his back straight and shoulders broad. His hair was grey, worn long, and his eyes glittered. Lines eschewed his face, giving him an otherworldly youthfulness that belied his years. 

“He will be welcomed into the halls beyond. They will see all he achieved, and give him the honour that he so deserved.” 

She had known that the king was coming, so that was no surprise. Was it the sadness in his face at losing such a friend? The gentleness of his stance? The darkness of his clothes? Aragorn was one of the men who had always outshone her Faramir, but here he seemed not to. Here he seemed to be Faramir’s equal, as only she had seen during his life. Did it need death for Faramir to know the appreciation he had earned? 

“He will see his brother and father soon, and they shall show him the respect he has always been due, and wait for me to join him in the next life. He was always so patient, but I should not keep him waiting so long, my king.” 

He stepped closer, so graceful and fluid, no different than he had been the day that they first met, yet now he wore a crown on his brow, and kingly robes instead of the rags of a ranger. 

“They will welcome you, also, Lady Eowyn, slayer of the Witch King, hero of Pelennor, but do not wish that to come soon.” 

Aragorn turned to the gathered assembly; his arms spread wide. Eowyn saw how the years had changed him, as they had her. He had always been a leader of men, but now he was more a king, freed of self-doubt. He ruled as a king should, through kindness, through justice, through honour. He had never thought himself above her husband. It was just the realm that had doled out such an injustice. 

“No silence should be shed for Faramir, for he was prince of the forests. Let us remember him in birdsong, cherish him in the rustle of the leaves, and honour him through these lands he so loved. His body shall be committed to this place, lest we ever forget what he did for us, and for our people.” 

She was given the honour, then, with her son, of escorting him upon his last journey. The stream here was not the Anduin, as Boromir had ridden, but it was ne’rtheless as mighty in the moment. The boat cut through the water with little resistance. As he slipped away from her, she reached out for her husband’s hand one last time, their fingers brushing. Then he was gone. The boat went over the waterfall, and fell into the pool below. She saw him disappearing, descending into the heart of Ithilien, where he belonged. 

She turned away, the white lady of Rohan, the princess of the Ithilien woods, no tears upon her cheeks, but weary, from both grief and life, though the two so often came together. She was alone, she supposed, yet not, for she had a son. She had dreamt of such a life when she was confined to Edoras. She had lived it well. They had lived it well, together. Now he was facing one adventure that she could not yet follow him on. 

“Wait for me, my Faramir. Wait for me so we may enter the warrior’s halls together.”

**Author's Note:**

> Merry christmas to anyone who happens to be reading this. UI wrote this for a wonderful friend, who i have known for years now. She inspired me to pursue my passion for writing (something she helped to create), and to push my boundaries of creativity. She is also a huge Eowyn fan, so this was for her. I hope she liked it, but I hope all of you liked it too.


End file.
